


Ten Paces

by justanothersong



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 18th Century, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe, Angst, Caribbean Island, F/M, Family Feels, Family Feuds, Plantations, Violence, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: Thor looked for a moment as though you had slapped him, face paled and eyes widened at your words. You were surprised to see that he looked truly hurt by what you had said, and you realized in that moment that Thor really did care for your brother; you’d try to tell Loki later, but he’d refuse to hear it.





	Ten Paces

“He means to kill you.”

You words were met only with a low chuckle. “Loki is my brother,” Thor reminded with a gentle smile. “He will do me no real harm.”

You huffed and drew up your skirts, walking to gaze out the open window. The sea was dark and tempestuous that night, churning and frothing against the shore with the high winds that had arrived three mornings prior and had yet to relinquish their grip on the island. Thankfully, the sugar cane would last, there was no doubt of that; it would survive the weather.

You were less certain about your husband-to-be.

“Loki is no more your brother than I am, my darling,” you told him, and sighed heavily. You shifted your face just gently from the moonlight, so that he might hear you better where he sat in his chair by the fire. “He takes the years he spent on this estate as more an insult than a show of mercy, Thor. As soon as Loki knew he was of Jötunn blood, he reviled your father for keeping him and raising him beside you. It’s no secret.”

Thor was unconvinced. “He may call himself a Laufey now, little love, but we bear a bond of brotherhood that can never be erased. I stood beside his cradle on the day he was brought home and pledged from that day forth, I would be my brother’s keeper. He would want for nothing and suffer no ill will, so long as it was in my power to keep it so. I know he still believes the same.”

You dropped your gaze to the floor. 

“Not brought home, Thor. Stolen, from an enemy’s cradle. A punishment from the great Odinson family for defying your father’s wishes. To replace the child born to your mother without life.” You turned to face him completely, your back to the cool night breeze coming in through the open window.

“What greater punishment for a man than to raise his son to hate his own people?” you asked, watching as the smile fell away from Thor’s face. You didn’t speak on it often; the sins of your fathers should not fall upon their children, and you wouldn’t let the cruel act haunt your life. But there was no helping Loki, not now, not as entrenched in his hate as he had become. “Leave the young girl-child behind and take the firstborn son to spite him and his father both.”

Thor stood, a mountain of a man, blocking out the flickering light of the fire. “I cannot speak for what my father has done,” he told you. Stepping forward, he took your small hands in his own. “I cannot ask you to forgive the crimes he committed against your family over their petty land squabbles and mindless politicking. But I can tell you without a doubt in my mind: I love Loki as my brother, no matter whose cradle he was born to. Just as I love you as my bride, which you will be in mere hours. Loki will do me no harm, my love. To do so would harm us both, and he adores you.”

 

You couldn’t help the small smile those last words brought forth. You had barely been born a year when your mother struggled to bring her son into the world, and even for a child so young, you remembered it clearly. Your father had bade you be left to watch, for it was a burden all women must bear in life and he thought it best you learn that lesson early, lest you be too careless with your chastity in the future. The blood and the agony on your mother’s face had been a terror to perceive but the way she calmed when they laid the squalling infant to her chest, still tethered to her body, had been a wonder. 

You loved your brother from the day he was born and, like Thor, thought it your duty to protect him. And you believed for years after that you failed him, ripped from his cradle that very night. Your mother had went mad for it, certain that the boy had been taken by a troll as recompense for an ancient unknown slight, or, even worse, taken as some sort of revenge for her husband’s cruelty in his younger, warfaring days.

Your father had watched the servants with great care, thinking perhaps they had taken the boy for ransom, ignoring your mother’s ravings, even as true as they had been.

The Laufey and Odinson families shared a great history, even though Thor’s family had long ago sworn an oath against the Jötunn, your own family’s forebears. There were tales that as young men, they had even been friends, fighting battles side by side on lands far away from the island where they now made their home. Whether they had been true friends when they joined their fortunes in business, you could never know; all you _did_ know for certain was that the Odinson plantation abutted your family’s own, and there had been simple disputes rising to full blown violence in the years since, over land and crops and lord knew what else. 

You did not set eyes upon Thor until you were fourteen years old, accompanying your father into town for something other than worship at the small church for the very first time, in the marketplace, as your father tried to teach you the ins and outs of haggling over supply prices with the market vendors. With your mother long dead, her birth-madness giving way to complete insanity before she threw herself from the plantation home’s highest balcony, it would be left to you and your one-day husband to manage the family estate and business. Loathe as your father was to hand over the keys to his carefully wrought kingdom, with no legitimate male heir, he would make do with what he had.

And then you saw him, and for a moment you stopped breathing.

Your home was cool and dark, deep cherry woods and vaulted ceilings concealed by arched windows kept shuttered against the Caribbean sun. It seemed there was no warmth left for you there, not for years. But Thor… Thor was all sunlight and golden warmth, blonde hair left to grow long and blow freely in the warm island air, not pulled back neatly as a gentleman might be told to do. He smiled keenly at those he met, nodding to friends and bowing to every girl, be they a child or an elder widow, each tittering and smiling in turn at his actions. When his blue eyes met yours, they sparked with interest, and his smile grew even broader.

It had been on the tip of your tongue to ask your father who he was, but the words died in your throat when you saw the sullen boy walking beside him. 

For all the golden aura that Thor seemed to radiate, Loki held the same of the darkness and gloom you knew so well, from his pale skin to his jet black hair and downcast eyes. Even if the stark contrast hadn’t caught your attention, the familiarity would easily have done so. There was no question there: this boy was your father’s son.

You tugged on your father’s sleeve, whispering an astonished, “Father!” several times before he turned, irritated at your interruption. Your stricken face made him follow your gaze and the sudden outright fury that grew there frightened you more than anything had in your young life.

You had heard of Thor before, heard your father complain about the boy from time to time to his business partners, wailing drunkenly that Odinson had a good strong boy to run his plantation in years to come and he was damned with a female whelp who would turn over all of his hard work to whatever man chooses to bed her. You had heard also that there was another Odinson boy, a small, sickly thing, kept out of the sun and out of the business of public life for his health.

But this boy -- your brother, you knew it to be true, as though his very blood called out to you -- looked fine and healthy. And exactly like your father.

It was a great joke to Thor’s father when confronted. He laughed merrily at what he had done, instructing Loki to pack his belongings and go to lodge in a Jötunn household until he was of age and able to hand the property over.

Loki had been horrified. The Jötunn were filth, he said. He could never live among them, he insisted, and spat onto the dirt to punctuate his words.

Your father had grabbed him by the collar. “You are _my_ son,” he had growled angrily. “My blood flows in your veins. You will not stay in the house of the Odinson family a moment longer. You will come to your true home and claim your birthright!”

Loki had cried. Tried to pull out of your father’s grasp until he fell to the ground, then crawled to the feet of the only father he had ever known, begging to be saved. Begging for it not to be true.

And oh, the man had laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed, pulling Loki to his feet.

“Go, then,” he instructed, and shoved Loki towards your father. “Prove yourself a better man than the seed that grew you, and you may call yourself an Odinson once again. For now, get out of my sight. Go away with the Jötunn filth that spawned you.”

Loki had not yet turned thirteen.

 

He was terrified for days on end. You would shoo the servants away to bring meals and books and toys to him yourself in the dark upper room where he had hidden himself away. In time, he would ask questions, and you’d answer each of them, save one; you never told him what became of your mother, or how she’d thrown herself from the balcony of that very room in grief and madness at losing him. 

Loki was only sixteen when your father died, thrown from his horse. He’d broken his neck but hadn’t died, the physicians had told you grimly. He laid there in a ditch alongside the rocky path for at least three days before the rains came and, unable to move, he drowned. Loki was unmoved; a fitting end, he thought, for the monster your father had become.

The years hadn’t been easy. It had taken a long time for Loki accept who he was and even longer for your father to accept it. The affection Loki held for the surrogate mother he dearly missed and for the older brother and playmate he loved seemed only to gall your father, who became intent on beating it out of him. He took out his anger on your brother’s back, horsewhip in hand, not stopping until the blood flowed freely. 

It hardened Loki, made him cruel and careless. He didn’t seem to know who he was -- Odinson or Laufey, your brother or Thor’s. He hated himself for the blood that ran through his veins, and and for missing the life he had known for so many years. 

But he loved you. He had accepted your kindness for what it was, no yet cold and jaded enough to suspect any attempts at wrongdoing or trickery. That had become Loki’s calling card; he didn’t have the brute and brawn that your father wanted, but he was endlessly clever and learned to fool the old man, and the stodgy men who worked for him. His games bordered on cruelty, but he never subjected you to his guile.

He may not have known you long but you were his sister, and you were his to protect. Loki would let nothing harm you, so long as he could help it. He had found solace in your quiet kindness and, later, joy and laughter in your company. Dark though his mind could be, you were the little beam of starlight that could draw him out from the shadows.

Which is why your romance with Thor vexed him so.

 

Thor began to attend Sunday services in town not long after Loki was taken back by your father. You knew the Odinsons had a chapel on their own property and typically listened to their own preacher when the sabbath came, so it was a surprise to see Thor enter the church. The way his eyes followed you, you realized he must be looking for Loki.

“He’s not here,” you told him, meeting on the plank wooden steps of the church. “Father doesn’t attend services any longer and he feels that Loki hasn’t any need for them either.”

Thor frowned. “But they send you in their stead?” he asked, falling into step as you made your way down the street.

“We must tithe, as everyone else does,” you told him. You really shouldn’t even be speaking to him; your father would be simply mad with anger if he knew.

“So you’re sent to make their offerings, is that it?” Thor pressed.

You sighed heavily and stopped walking; your carriage would be waiting at the inn just a few steps away, and you didn’t want the footman to see Thor at your side.

“He’s not here,” you reminded. “Why must you bother me?”

Thor’s expression softened. “I wish to know how my brother is faring, that is all,” he told you. He looked troubled, truly troubled. As if he actually cared.

“He is not your brother,” you told him sternly. You couldn’t hate Thor for what his father had done, and you didn’t bear him any ill will, but you certainly saw no need for friendship. “He is _my_ brother, who should have grown up at my side, in our family home. Loki may have been taken from us, but never forget this: he is not yours. He is _not_ your brother.”

Thor looked for a moment as though you had slapped him, face paled and eyes widened at your words. You were surprised to see that he looked truly hurt by what you had said, and you realized in that moment that Thor really did care for your brother; you’d try to tell Loki later, but he’d refuse to hear it.

Just as quickly as the look had passed over Thor’s features, it had faded away, replaced by one of his sunny smiles. He arched an eyebrow and took one of your hands in his.

“Perhaps not now,” he agreed, then bent and placed a congenial kiss upon your hand. “But I think one day soon, I might call him brother again… or, rather, brother-in-law.”

Your eyes widened and pulled your hand away, running for your carriage, embarrassed and delighted all at once. Your face was burning as you climbed into the carriage and spied Thor still standing there, watching you with a small smile; you yanked the shade down on the window and bade the driver hurry home, smiling down at your feet and wondering if Thor would be there to greet you next Sunday.

Three weeks after your father’s bloated corpse was fished out of a flooded ditch beside the road, Thor gave you a golden posey ring. It was inscribed inside with three simple words: _always my love_.

 

Loki was furious. No daughter of the Laufey house, no woman of the Jötunn bloodline, could ever lower herself to marry an Odinson. He would simply not allow it.

“This will not… this _cannot_ happen,” Loki reprimanded, pacing the dark dining room of your family estate. The table was long enough to see thirty, but you took no visitors for dinner; you hadn’t in years. It was just the two of you, Loki at the head of the table in what had been your father’s chair and you beside him, glaring at each other among the light of candelabras.

“I won’t have you deciding who I marry,” you retorted. “It is to be my choice and my choice alone, Loki. And I choose Thor.”

He slammed his fist on the table. “He is an Odinson!” he roared.

“A name you wore with pride for twelve long years, as I remember!” you snapped back. You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned back in your seat with a huff.

“A name I wore falsely. A name I was branded with after my true birthright was stolen from me and cast away on the whim of an arrogant old fool,” he responded evenly, hunched forward with his arms crossed upon the table.

“You have no say in this!” you snapped. “Everything is in place. I will wed Thor in three weeks’ time, on his family estate. My dress has been made, and Lady Frigga has sent for a pearl diadem from her family’s wealth for me to wear.”

Loki’s face softened, not unexpectedly. “Moth…” he began, then stopped himself, clearing his throat. “You have spoken to Frigga?” he asked.

“She is a lovely woman,” you said quietly. “And she approves of the match. She said… she said how lucky it is that the Laufeys had such a sweet daughter… someone to care for her son.”

Loki closed his eyes. “I am not her son,” he said, voice but a whisper.

“Not by blood,” you agreed. “But she loves you as her own, and always will. This match for Thor will not only bring joy to me, Loki, but to her as well… because you will be family once again.”

Loki had never been able to direct his anger at Frigga, Thor’s mother and the woman who had raised him as her own since infancy. She hadn’t known of her husband’s deception; she had borne a child, a little girl, who was too small and withered to even take a breath; she had been in her sickbed still, in mourning, when her husband had brought her the infant Loki.

“A foundling,” he had insisted. “Left upon the stair of the chapel. A burden for some wretch, a bastard no doubt, but a blessing for us. Another son. A child for your empty arms to hold. We shall call him Loki.”

Loki looked to you and sighed. “And this is what your heart wills, dear sister?”

You smiled. “Nothing will ever make me so happy,” you told him.

He lifted his head and gave you the smallest smile. “Then I shall not trouble you over it further,” he told you. “If your heart wills you must marry Thor, then I will make no quarrel. Perhaps there can be peace between our families after all.”

 

It was wonderful. For weeks and weeks it was wonderful. But you should have known your brother’s temper would get the better of him in the long run. Of course, it wasn’t all Loki; Thor could just as easily rise to the bait of a silly argument and let his need to be right outweigh the need to keep the peace.

It started simply enough.

“Before the rainy season starts, we’ll build a new bridge over the river,” Thor remarked. He and Loki hadn’t precisely been friendly as the evening of your rehearsal dinner started, but they exchanged pleasantries as custom would dictate and the chilliness between them had begun to thaw. “That way, a new road to be cut through that will save an hour’s ride to the village.”

“You forget, Thor,” Loki replied. “The river marks a border. Any new road beyond will cut through Laufey land.”

Thor waved his hand. “It is only forestry,” he said. “It will be of no matter to pull it down.”

Loki gritted his teeth. “Again, Thor, I must remind: that is _Laufey_ land. We use those woods as training ground for the hunting hounds and the servants harvest wild produce in the summer months. It will not be cleared.”

You sighed. “Let us not argue on such a happy occasion,” you said, trying to smooth things over.

At the end of the table, Thor’s father barked a laugh. “I see you’re just as thick-skulled as your father!” he called out. “Hunting hounds? Wild produce? Uselessness! The road will aid in transporting our goods, a far better use for the land!” In that moment, you realized that this new road must have been his idea; he had simply sold Thor upon it, intent on causing trouble.

Loki stood, fists clenched at his thighs. “You have no right to the land, old man,” he snapped. “There will be no road. I will not allow it.”

Everything had erupted from there; Thor and Loki arguing, the elder Odinson egging them on, you and Frigga trying to calm them. You were near tears, so upset; it was the night before your wedding and it could all be ruined for one silly argument.

“That is enough!” Frigga was shouting, but her words went unheard. You heard the slap rather than saw it, the uproar it caused turning the room into a confused mess of sound and motion.

“We duel tomorrow!” Loki shouted, heading for the door. 

“I shall look forward to it!” Thor shouted back.

 

That was what had led you here, to Thor’s private study. In the morning, either Thor or Loki would die; in the afternoon, you’d either be a bride or a widow who was never wed, a brotherless sister or a sister to the man who had murdered your husband to be. It was too much to take.

Thor pulled you into his arms and you closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his strong arms envelop you and keep you close.

“Please, Thor,” you whispered. “Please, my darling, put an end to this nonsense. Do not duel with Loki tomorrow; I cannot lose you, my love. I cannot lose either of you.”

“Do not worry,” Thor replied, stroking your back. “You will not lose anyone tomorrow, only gain a husband. And I shall regain my brother.”

You wept still, wishing you had his confidence.

 

You slept fitfully that night in the suite of rooms that would become home to you and Thor once you were wed. You woke before the sun rose and stared out at the sea, hoping the restless waters were not a portent for the day that lay before you.

Frigga arrived early to help you begin dressing, the duel meant to end just before the wedding was to begin. You knew the others expected both men to fire their pistols in the air, a gentleman’s duel that would serve to end their argument and keep them both safe from harm, but the deep sense of foreboding in the pit of your stomach would not cease.

“You mustn’t worry, dear,” Frigga told you. Your ablutions had finished quite quickly, your hair neatly curled and pinned, your dress clean and pressed. Frigga had tightened your stays herself, the cream colored gown with small hand-stitched roses and embroidered pearls the finest you had ever worn.

She had smiled at you in the mirror when she placed her family’s pearl diadem atop your curls.

“Thor’s pistol is packed only with powder,” she explained. “He would never hurt your brother.”

“Loki will not fire into the air,” you insisted. “He will think it cowardice. He means to hurt Thor, to end all of this, for Odin’s road.”

Frigga shook her head. “I’m sure your fears are unfounded. You will see. Come now, let us have tea before they return.” Still, the feeling wouldn’t leave you. Your intuition had never failed you before, and it wouldn’t fail you now.

Thor had packed his pistol with only powder in preparation for the duel, but his father saw an opportunity before him to gain Laufey lands completely by marriage, no male heir in the way to keep them out of his hands. He had waited until Thor slumbered and added the musket ball; he would have all that he wanted.

“No,” you whispered, horrified by the sudden thoughts of blood and burnt gunpowder that plagued your mind. Your hands were shaking and you dropped your tea cup; it shattered on the small veranda table where you sat with Frigga, sending droplets of the amber liquid onto the lace of your gown.

“Oh my, oh dear!” Frigga said, standing quickly to dab at the spots with her handkerchief. She gestured at a servant who came running with a pitcher of water to help. “Don’t trouble yourself, we’ll keep it from staining,” she tried to reassure you.

You shoved them both away. “No!” you shouted, stomach churning and hands still shaking. You had to stop them -- you had to stop them from doing something terrible!

 

Frigga shouted after you as you ran, the skirts of your wedding dress becoming quickly dusty and stained from the hard ground and remnants of grass along the path to the beach. The men were meant to meet there, with Lord Heimdall acting as host. You moved as quickly as you could, the heavy dress and its trailing skirts making your journey difficult through the dunes. 

You started to scream when you saw them, but the wind tore the words from your throat. A crowd had gathered to watch, curious to see if the two men who had once been brothers could go through with such an act.

“You will walk ten paces,” Lord Heimdall instructed, “Then turn and fire. On your marks men… and begin.”

The had begun their walk as you reached the wet sand of the beach, stumbling in slippers meant to walk the aisle of a chapel, not trudge through the wet and marshy grounds of the beach.

“Stop, please, stop!” you cried, but they were already turning, pistols held high. They didn’t see you, you thought. They couldn’t hear you.You must make them listen.

Thor fired his weapon easily, with no hesitation. He needn’t stop to think about it; after all, so far as he knew, his pistol was empty save for a flash of gunpowder.

Loki knew his pistol was loaded and ready to do its duty, but he hesitated at the last moment and aimed his barrell low, hoping for a brief moment to only hit the sand.

They didn’t see you, too caught up in the tense moment.

They didn’t hear you, your voice carried away by the wind, what little that remained drowned out by the macabre cheers of the leering crowd.

The thick cork heel of your slipper was never meant for sand, or even broken stone. It caught in the rocky edge of the dune and you stumbled quickly forward, a shriek rising from the women of the crowd as they saw you fall into line between Thor and Loki, puffs of smoke rising in the air from their pistols.

 

You didn’t really feel it. That was a blessing, you supposed. For a long moment the world was silent, save for the sounds of the waves and the cries of the birds in the skies above the beach. Then there was screaming and shouting and the gurgle of blood in your throat, spilling out of your mouth in a torrent. You couldn’t understand why you were lying in the sand, not at first; not until you recognized the coppery taste of blood in your mouth and realized what the slick wet heat spreading down your back and across your chest must be.

You gasped and gurgled, trying to say their names, but it was of no use. You had no air to speak with, only blood spraying out from your lips, speckling your face with minute droplets of red that would match the stains on your pretty dress.

They were both there with you, holding you, screaming. There was blood all over their hands as they cradled you together and you closed your eyes, letting the sounds of the sea wash over you, thinking that at least they would be brothers once again.

~*~

“What’s that place?” Peter asked, nodding towards the ruined old plantation house down the dirt road.

“That’s the…” MJ began, glancing at the map in her hands. “Aha! That’s the Odinson Estate. Says here it was abandoned some time in the 18th century and it supposed to be haunted by… ooh, by a ghostly bride!”

Ned snorted and adjusted his backpack on his shoulders. “We’re on _Spring Break_ on a Caribbean island, and you want to poke around a busted up old house?”

“Scared?” Peter asked with a crooked smile.

“Scared of missing out on beach parties, maybe,” Ned replied.

MJ laughed. “Okay, okay,” she said. “I just wanted to see it. Let’s get back to the resort, I think the barbeque is starting in like an hour.” She turned and headed back down the trail, the two boys laughing and shoving at each other as they walked.

None of them looked back to see the wispy figure on the old verandah, a vision of cream-colored satin and roses, looking out over the restless sea.

**Author's Note:**

> (Inspired by the Eden Brown Estate episode of the Haunted Places podcast.)


End file.
